Неизвестный - 3. In Pursuit Of Justice

She shook his hand and followed him into another bland room crammed with an institutional appearing desk, a wall of mismatched bookcases, and two generic arm chairs as he said, “Come on in.” Fluorescent lights in a drop ceiling and wall-to-wall dark gray carpet completed the impersonal space.

“Have you done this before?” he asked as he settled behind the desk in a swivel chair that squeaked in protest.

“No.” She eyed the plain fronted manila folder that sat closed in front of him. The label was obscured, but she knew what it was. Her jacket. Everything the department had accumulated on her in her twelve years of service. There were no reprimands, no inquiries, no investigative reports in that file—at least not to her knowledge. There were two citations.

“You understand this is routine after an officer involved shooting or a serious injury to an officer in the line of duty. In your case…” He regarded her intently, then continued, “It’s both.”

I understand I won’t be able to get back to work until you say I can. I understand that you’re supposed to be here to help the rank and file, but you’re not one of us. And I understand that cops aren’t allowed to have problems, at least not the kind of problems that you deal with . She met his gaze directly. “Yes, I understand.”

“Okay. Good.” He leaned back in his chair, seemingly undisturbed by the ominous sounds that any movement produced. “You’re Special Crimes, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Like it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s my job.”

He smiled. “Have you ever been shot at before, Sergeant?”

“Yes, once.” She knew it must be in the file—it had been a domestic dispute, like the one that her father had been killed in. Like him, she’d responded to a call from a concerned neighbor who had heard screams from the apartment next door, and as with him, when she and her partner had announced themselves as police officers, the husband had opened fire. Unlike her father, she had been lucky.

“You weren’t hit that first time, were you?”

“No.”

“Did it frighten you?”

“Not really,” Rebecca replied, wondering where he was going. “It happened quickly, and then it was over. We fired over his head, he threw out the gun, and we were on him in a second. There was nothing to be afraid of.”

“Did you think about it later? Dream about it?”

“No.”

“What about this time?”

It had been different the second time. She’d known it was coming. She’d been prepared for it from the second that she’d stepped into the dark, cavernous room. She’d been looking right at Raymond Blake while he held a gun to Catherine’s temple. He’d been twitchy, raving, and she knew there wasn’t much time. She wanted him to focus on her; he had to be angry at her; he had to move the weapon from Catherine’s head and put it on her. She knew exactly what would happen as she goaded and taunted him into turning the automatic on her.

“What do you remember about it?”

“Not much,” she answered, sitting relaxed in the chair, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. “It was only a minute or two.”

He opened the file, shuffled a few papers, glanced down for a few seconds as if reading, then regarded her neutrally. “The report from Detective Watts says that you and the suspect—Blake—exchanged words, but your partner stated that he couldn’t hear what you said.”

Rebecca waited. He hadn’t asked a question.

“What did the two of you talk about?”

“I identified myself as a police office and ordered him to drop the weapon.”

“That’s all?”

“There wasn’t time for anything else.”

“You were alone at the time?”

“No,” Rebecca replied evenly. “Detective Watts was behind me.”

“Outside the building.”

“Yes—with a clear sight line to the subject.”

The psychologist was silent for another few seconds. “I’m not IAD.”

She waited again. He might not be Internal Affairs, but she didn’t doubt that her confidential psych eval would be available to them for the asking.

“I’m not inquiring because I’m faulting your procedures, Detective,” he continued. “I’m wondering why a seasoned detective would walk into a situation where the risk was so high.”

“I felt that the hostage was in immediate danger of execution.”

“Dr. Rawlings.”

“Yes.” Catherine. The bastard had struck her, torn her blouse open, bound her hands. He hadn’t had enough time yet to do anything else to her, but I knew what he intended to do. I remembered his voice on the tape, describing it in detail, and I wanted to kill him then. I can still hear his voice. Sitting there, recalling his smooth, intimate tone as he’d talked about fucking her lover, she had to concentrate not to clench her fists.

“Detective,” Rand Whitaker asked softly, “did you walk into that room intending to trade yourself for the hostage?”

Rebecca met his eyes, her cool blue eyes unwavering. Very clearly she replied, “No.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

AT NINE-FORTY, Catherine stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of a building that had once been a gracious four story Victorian before it had had been purchased by the University and converted to offices. It was dark, the night was cool; summer was dying. A shadow moved from beneath a tree nearby, and she stiffened.

“It’s me. I’m sorry.”

“Rebecca,” Catherine said with a soft sigh. She held out her hand. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long—fifteen minutes, maybe. Joyce said that you had an eight-thirty so I figured you’d be done about now.” She linked the fingers of her left hand through Catherine’s. She was right-handed and needed to keep her gun hand free on the street.

“You could have waited inside.”

“I didn’t want to run into a patient. Besides, it’s nice out here.” They began to walk. “Drive you home?”

“Mmm, yes. My car’s in the parking garage. I can leave it if you bring me in tomorrow. Can you stay tonight?” It was hard needing to ask, but this was new territory for both of them. She didn’t want to make assumptions.

“I’ll need to go early. There’s a meeting in the morning.”

“Ah—you’ve seen your Captain.” She’d known it would be soon, but did it have to be this fast? Of course, there were some things that the police always did quickly. They worked nonstop when a case was new and the blood was still fresh; they interrogated people before the tears had dried and they were emotionally the most vulnerable; they buried their dead and moved on before the ground was cold. At least they tried to, until something inside them broke or turned to stone. She thought about her new patient, the young officer who was trying so hard not to acknowledge the pain and terror and abandonment she must have felt walking down that dark alley with no one at her back. Her heart twisted, but her voice was even. “You’re working again?”

Rebecca leaned down to unlock the Vette. “Not quite. He put me on a desk. Have you eaten?”

“Uh—lunch.” She was relieved at the idea of a desk assignment and then reminded herself that the reprieve was temporary at best. “Doing what?”

“Feel like Thai?” Rebecca pulled away from the curb and reached for her cell phone at Catherine’s affirming nod. “There’s a menu in the door. Just call out what you want,” she added, punching in numbers from memory. She relayed the order, then drove in silence a few blocks, watching the traffic, the people on the sidewalks, the city teeming with life. Finally, she said grimly, her jaw tight, “I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to be doing. I’ll find out in the morning. It’s a task force to ferret out the important players in an interstate porn ring. Maybe even an international one, apparently. I don’t have the details yet. It’s need to know bullshit, which means that probably no one knows anything.”